Everything You Saw
by MarthaJones11
Summary: Sherlock and John discover a young girl of great interest to them. She also happens to be James Moriarty's captive. A typical story about family and international terrorism, and the lengths Sherlock and John will go to make sure Evelyn is safe.
1. Chapter 1

She shouldered the backpack and rounded a corner, picking up speed as the rush of pedestrians streamed around her on their way from work, school, to home. Occasionally, she glanced behind her to see if she was being followed. The answer seemed to be no. She turned and continued forward.

Dusk was gathering. It would be cold soon. She was no stranger to the elements, but still wanted to find a relatively safe place to spend the night – preferably alone. She stayed away from shelters. Too many people, too many questions.

A nook near a dark shop caught her eye. The windows and door were boarded up. No one would be coming in to disturb her, and the slight inlet off the sidewalk would protect her, however little, from the cold. Taking another sweeping glance around, she threw down her backpack and wrenched it open, eager to find her sleeping bag before the night fully engulfed the city. She put on several extra layers of clothing – another pair of socks, a black windbreaker, gloves – before curling up inside the worn sleeping bag and closing her eyes against the darkening sky. Exhaustion overtook her. Within minutes, she was asleep.

"Hey there. You all right?" the concerned voice jolted her awake.

She sat bolt upright, getting tangled slightly in the sleeping bag. Her joints ached from another night on cold ground, and her eyes squinted against the bright morning sunlight. In front of her stood a short man, blonde, middle-aged, his eyes worried. She quickly unzipped the sleeping bag and started stuffing it into her backpack.

"Yeah. I'm fine, thanks for asking," she responded hastily. "Just passing through…didn't quite make it to my uncle's place last night…"

The words sounded forced and false. She knew the man would never buy them.

"You know about St. John's around the corner?" he asked, clearly seeing through her lies. "They serve hot breakfast until nine."

Her eyes narrowed as she finished packing up her backpack. She bent down to tie her shoes, never taking her glare off the man. He was overly concerned, and that worried her.

"You make it a habit of waking up everyone on the streets of London?" she asked, standing up and pulling on her backpack straps.

He smiled.

"I pass this way every morning. People always sleep in the same spots. Not too much variation. You see someone new, you wonder if they're all right," he shrugged. "Sorry if I bothered you."

She felt a twinge of guilt in her stomach. Although her guard was still up, she honestly felt the man meant no harm. She sighed. It was always this sentimental side that got her in trouble. But her stomach was tight, and a hot breakfast did sound good this morning. She smiled.

"Not a problem. Sorry I was so rude. Mind showing me to St. John's?"

The man smiled back and nodded. Together they walked in silence to the church, observing the sunrise over the city as its people began to awaken. They reached the iron gates and the man turned toward her.

"Listen," he said, "I don't do this often, but you're clearly new here, and pretty young as well."

She shrugged. He was helping her to breakfast. He didn't need to know her life story. But her eyes glazed over slightly as he held out a business card with his name and address on it beneath a phone number.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to call," he said.

He then held out his hand. She grabbed it and shook it, thanking him for breakfast and the card. He then walked away, turning the corner and disappearing from her sight. She turned over the card in her hands.

"John Watson," she muttered, stuffing it into her pocket. "I'll keep that offer in mind, Mr. Watson."

She opened the latch on the gate and walked into the churchyard, following several makeshift signs to the breakfast room. Before entering the building, she gathered her hair into a messy bun and hid it underneath a grey knit cap. She then pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and opened the door. Inside, about fifteen people sat at round tables, nursing steaming Styrofoam cups of black coffee and eating plates of pancakes drowned in syrup. She approached the long table in front where elderly men and women were handing out plates and cups to several people in front of her.

"I'm sorry, dearie, but you'll have to take your hood off," said one of the ladies as she handed her a plate of pancakes. "Kitchen policy, you see."

She smiled at the woman, and then stiffly removed the hood. She immediately felt exposed and vulnerable. Her heart rate increased, her eyes darted around the room. But no one was moving. No one cared that one small girl had taken off her hood. She continued down the line, nodding at the white-haired vicar who asked if she wanted syrup and thanking the last man in line who handed her a small cup of piping hot coffee. Wandering through to the tables, she chose one completely apart from the rest of the diners. She sat quickly and prayed swiftly over her breakfast, reciting lines from a time long past and from memory long marred, before digging into the food.

A sharp pain in her side brought everything to her throat. Her breath hitched. She went to reach inside her front pocket, but was met with a cruel laugh.

"I don't think so, sweetheart," he said quietly. "Hands on the table. You make a move and everyone in this room is dead."

Her breath was ragged, her pulse racing.

"What do you want?" she asked quietly, her voice shaking as she attempted to hide the panic rising within.

"It's not what I want. Jim wants you back," he hissed. "Now, you're going to be a good girl and step away from the table. You're coming outside with me. No fuss."

"What if I fight back?" she asked.

He laughed harshly, digging the tip of the knife into her side slightly and twisting. She gasped with the sudden pain.

"You know him. This place is surrounded, sweetheart. You fight back, and all these people die." He smirked. "And you still end up with him. Questions?"

She shook her head slightly. Together they stood and walked out the door. She nodded stiffly to the man holding the door open for them, and then was guided to a black SUV parked just outside the iron gates of the churchyard. A door swung open in the backseat. Her head was wrenched to the side as a needle stabbed her quickly in the neck. A sharp pain was followed by a single question from the open door, after which everything went black.

"Did you miss me?"


	2. Chapter 2

She groaned as a man's voice shouted loudly through the haze that enveloped her mind and produced a splitting headache.

"Wakey, wakey!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands in front her face.

She slowly opened her eyes, flinching against the bright lights of the room. Looking around, she found her situation almost humorous – almost. She was sitting in a simple, wooden chair with hands bound behind her back. That bit wasn't shocking. What surprised her was the location Jim Moriarity had brought her to. It was a penthouse suite, most likely his suite, and was impeccably designed and decorated. Not a cushion, not a painting was out of place. Everything was posh, designer, and massively expensive. She felt her stomach clench. This room alone could feed the hungry of London for months. And it was all gotten through crime and death. She felt sick as she looked into the eyes of her captor.

"Jim." She said simply, her voice slightly hoarse from hours knocked out.

He smiled. He was dressed to match the rest of the apartment – he could have been a fixture of the room in his designer suit and pants, pressed perfectly, and his dark hair slicked back without a strand out of place.

"Evelyn." He responded in the same tone. "How are you feeling?"

"Been better," she responded, not allowing her voice to show panic that was slowly rising within her.

"Come now, darling, I just wanted to have a fun little chat."

She raised her eyebrows.

"I'm tied to a chair."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"That's where the fun comes in!" he exclaimed, his voice sing-song like that of an adult convincing a child that a certain activity, say, cleaning their room, was going to be enjoyable.

Jim pulled up a chair and sat across from her, resting his elbows on spread knees and folding his fingers underneath his chin.

"Now, we're going to play a game. I'm going to ask you some questions. If you answer correctly…well you answer correctly," he smirked. "If you answer wrongly…" he didn't finish the statement, but Evelyn saw a switchblade flick open in his left hand.

"Do we understand the rules?" he asked softly, his eyes locked on the blade that opened and closed with the lightest touch of his fingers.

She sat with wide eyes staring at Jim. She tried to speak, but no words came out.

"I said, DO WE UNDERSTAND?" he roared, his eyes flashing up to hers and his mouth twisting under the ugly strain of the sudden shout.

Evelyn nodded quickly and whispered a quiet affirmation. She breathed slowly, calmly, attempting to get her emotions under control. It wasn't going to end well for her. The best she could do at this point was answer his questions and minimize the pain.

Jim smiled. "Good girl," he responded, his anger again carefully hidden away.

"First question. Where have you been hiding these past six months?"

"All over. Paris. Brussels. El Camino. Amsterdam. I just got into London yesterday," she forced out the answer, hoping it was the right one.

"Anywhere else?" he asked quietly.

She wracked her memories. She hadn't left Europe, but had travelled the continent by train and car, hitchhiking her way from city to city. She moved around frequently in an attempt to avoid Jim's spies who, she found out quickly, were everywhere.

"No?" she said, her voice a mix of question and response.

Jim smiled. "Excellent! See, this isn't so hard!" He flicked the switchblade. "So. Evelyn. How did you manage to avoid me for so long?"

"Well, your men aren't exactly the brightest," she responded, voice dripping with disdain.

Her eyes widened and her mouth clamped shut. She knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left her lips. It was a habit of hers. Sassiness might have been an advantage when dealing with people the past few months, but with Jim Moriarty, it was only certain to bring pain.

It came. Jim rose slowly and sauntered over to her, flicking open the blade and crouching down in front of her face. A single finger lifted her eyes to his, and the sharp knife trailed alongside her jawline. One tear left her eyes and streaked down her face. Jim quickly raised a hand and wiped it away.

"No, sweetheart, no tears," he said quietly. "No tears."

The blade slashed along her right cheekbone before she saw Jim move. She cried out against the pain and a moment later, it was gone. Jim stood back up and stared down at her. She saw his movement a split second too late.

A fist crashed against the deep gash on her face. She screamed. The pain was far worse than the simple blade had caused. She saw Jim backing away and sitting down through the haze of white-hot, searing pain that coursed through her face and head. It was frightening, agonizing, and horribly consistent. It wasn't going away.

"Now," he said quietly, his voice conversational, as if seconds before he hadn't gashed her face and left her reeling in agony, "how did you avoid my men for six months?"

She gasped for air through the pain.

"Homeless network," she forced out, spitting out blood onto the plush white carpeting that cushioned their chairs.

Jim frowned. "Try not to bleed on the carpet, sweetheart," he said. "What's this homeless network?"

"Worked my way into the tiers of homeless society in each city," she said, her voice constricted by the pain and the blood pooling in her mouth. She swallowed and cringed, but continued talking. "Learned the ways of the city, the ways of strangers, learned how to survive and avoid newcomers."

"How about that," Jim whispered, looking closely at her. "Homeless network."

She said nothing. He shrugged, then stood up quickly and wiped the blade on a handkerchief sitting on a nearby coffee table.

"Well, I want to continue our little conversation later, sweetheart. But right now I've got a meeting with a very important person. Heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

She shook her head. She didn't know and didn't care. He was probably another criminal associate or psychopath. Jim smiled at her.

"You might soon, darling," he whispered.

He then motioned to someone Evelyn couldn't see. She hardly felt the needle this time before the darkness overtook her.


	3. Chapter 3

Evelyn groaned and rolled over, opening her eyes against the light. It was too bright. Her head hurt. Her face hurt – that puzzled her. And her left arm was aching and stiff. She went to pull down her left hand to touch her face, but found it firmly extended behind her head. She immediately whipped around. It was handcuffed to an ornate headboard.

Everything came rushing back. Her capture, Moriarty's game – that explained the pain in her face – and his departure while knocking her unconscious. Evelyn looked around the room. She was laying on a large bed with deep brown comforter, surrounded by dark, wooden posts. The room was small but richly decorated. Rather too rich for a guest room. Evelyn's eyes narrowed; something was off about her room, but she couldn't put her finger on it. The waves of haziness from the drugs were wearing off but still affecting her mind. She sighed and leaned back on down pillows, trying to ignore the pain throbbing across her face and the knots clenching in her stomach.

The door swung open. She gasped and quickly tried to sit up, but was inhibited by the handcuffs and ended up slipping back down onto the bed. A young man, nearly her age, shuffled through the door with head bowed. His hair was blond, he was tall and lean, and he wore dark pants with a green button down shirt. In his hands, he carried a tray with a teacup, a glass of water, and a plate of food that made Evelyn's stomach rumble. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a solid meal.

"Hello," she said cautiously to the man, trying to make eye contact. "My name is Evelyn. Did Jim send you?"

"Mr. Moriarty send his regards, and hopes you're feeling better," he responded haltingly. "He regrets that he cannot join you, but business calls."

"Wow," she said. "You have that speech memorized? What's your name?" She asked as the man set down the food on a nightstand next to her.

His eyes darted up to her. They were dark, pained. He seemed to be struggling with something. His mouth opened and closed several times.

"I'm…I'm not supposed to talk to the guests…" he trailed off.

Evelyn let out a harsh laugh.

"Guests?" she exclaimed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Is that what I am to Jim? Well, I can't remember the last time a host drugged me and tortured me."

He flinched.

"Please, I didn't mean it like that," he said quietly. "I'm…I'm a guest too," he said, his eyes locked on hers.

"You mean…you're like me? You don't work here for pay, do you?" she whispered, her voice dropping all previous malice. "You're forced to be here, aren't you?"

His eyes darted to the door as he shifted nervously beside the bed.

"I…I shouldn't…he'll find out…" his voice trailed off. "I'm only here as a form of insurance; here to make sure my parents – "

"Enough."

The voice hissed from the doorway. They both jumped at the sound. Evelyn's eyes widened as she stared at Jim Moriarty standing at the door, his eyes drilling into the dark ones of the boy standing next to her. Jim sauntered over as the younger man stood trembling, frozen to the ground.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Moriarty," he stammered out, "I didn't tell her anything. I swear."

"Oh, Nathaniel, you know I'd never hurt you," Jim drawled, reaching the spot where he stood. "But still…you did disobey me." His voice became hard. "Leave. I'll deal with you later."

Nathaniel bolted from the room, tripping over the frame of the door and stumbling away, dragging the doorknob behind him. Jim and Evelyn were alone.

Jim smirked and sat down at the foot of the bed.

"How are you feeling, darling?" he asked, voice soft.

"Been better," she responded. "Face is killing me. And I can't say these handcuffs were the most comfortable to sleep in."

"They're usually meant for another purpose other than sleeping in this bedroom," Jim said, his smile widening and eyes dancing with amusement.

"Spare me," Evelyn rolled her eyes and turned her face aside.

A few minutes passed before she felt him stand up. Suddenly, a hand alongside her jaw turned her face to face his. Jim stood just above her, his eyes deadly calm.

"I don't enjoy it when my guests are disrespectful," he whispered into her ear. "Nathaniel was disrespectful when he talked to you. And he'll pay for it later."

He released her face and stood staring at her. Evelyn's stomach clinched. Nathaniel hadn't done anything wrong, and she had urged him to talk. He wouldn't be in danger now if it weren't for her.

"Please," she said quietly, "Please don't hurt him. He was only answering my questions. Please, I'll do anything."

Jim laughed harshly, spinning around where he stood and clapping his hands like a small child. He stopped and stared down at her, his eyes again dancing with amusement and something else that frightened Evelyn to the bone.

"You mean, you would take the punishment for a man you've barely known for five minutes?" he asked, his voice skipping and full of excitement.

"Yes," she whispered, unsure of her motivation. All she knew was that Nathaniel had obviously suffered for a very long time under the violent and unpredictable hands of Jim Moriarty, and she wouldn't be the cause of any more pain inflicted on him.

Jim shrugged and gave her an approving nod of the head.

"Oh, so noble," he said quietly. "Just like him. You're on the side of the angels, after all, my dear."

Evelyn's eyes narrowed.

"Like who? What angels?" she asked.

"Ah-ah-ah, I'll be asking the questions during your stay," he responded, shaking a finger in her face. "But first, your punishment that you've so nobly taken upon yourself."

He walked around the room, sauntering slowly away from the bed and making a show of deciding on her punishment.

"Oh, would you just get it over with already?" she snapped.

Jim turned toward her, eyes gleaming. His eyes darted to the tray of food, still untouched, on her bedside table. Evelyn's eyes widened.

"No, no you don't!" she shouted, making to grab the tray away from him. Unfortunately, her handcuffed arm and slow reaction from the drugs made her no match for his quick movements.

"I don't think so, my dear," Jim said as he snatched the food and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. "Three days," he drawled, looking back at her with gleaming eyes.

"Three days?" she scoffed. "I've gone longer than that in Spain. While hiking."

"Then it shouldn't be a challenge," he hissed, his face suddenly at eye level with hers.

She maintained eye contact, never backing down. Jim stared at her, and then broke into a dangerous grin. She had seen that smile before, and it usually wasn't good.

"Three days," he laughed. "Three days, then you'll meet him."

Evelyn tilted her head. "Meet who?" she asked, wondering at his sudden change in demeanor.

Jim backed away, sauntered toward the door.

"You'll see, my angel," he responded before walking away and slamming the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys! Thanks for the great response. Here's a shorter chapter, but I wanted to get something up for you guys because you're amazing. As always, reviews are appreciated, but just enjoy the story. Thanks!**

* * *

"Does the name Evelyn Jones mean anything to you?" Mycroft asked, taking a sip of tea and eyeing his younger brother.

Sherlock continued to run a smooth chunk of rosin along the fine hairs of the violin bow. His cup of tea sat untouched on the table. Still dressed in sweatpants and a robe, he provided a nearly comical foil to his impeccably dressed older brother.

"Should it?" he asked, glancing up at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and placed his cup aside Sherlock's. He stood and paced the room, stopping at the large front window and peering through the blinds.

"I heard you met with Jim Moriarty a few days ago."

"I'd hardly call it a meeting, brother dear," Sherlock responded. "More, he again broke into the flat and we enjoyed a cup of tea while discussing his control of the government." He stopped and let out a soft laugh. "Not unlike our conversations, Mycroft."

"Hm. Well just be thankful I'm the one actually in power, and not James Moriarty, little brother."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Mycroft. He seems like he's got quite a few high-ranking members under his thumb. And he's not afraid to brag about it."

Mycroft wandered back to his seat and sat down heavily. The room was silent for several moments, with the only distraction the gentle swaying of Sherlock's bow against the smooth rosin block.

"Evelyn Jones."

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked, snapping out of a haze of thought.

"Why did you bring her up? Who is she?" Sherlock asked, setting down the bow and rosin and clasping his hands underneath his chin. "She obviously is connected to Moriarty. You brought up their names in rather quick succession."

"Very good, little brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at Mycroft.

"Just tell me. I'm in no mood for games."

"Very well," Mycroft responded. "Several days ago, we received word from Moriarty that he held in his possession an Evelyn Jones. Naturally we searched our records, but didn't find anyone of any importance with that name. However, Moriarty informed us that she is of rather extreme value. He claims that the man who holds her, controls the government and police force." Mycroft paused and glanced at Sherlock, who was staring, unblinking, at his brother. "He wants to meet tomorrow and discuss her identity. He demanded both you and I be present, and he'll be bringing the girl."

"Is that all?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened.

"Sherlock, I've just informed you that the country's most dangerous criminal possesses the means to control the government and police force."

"I understand, Mycroft," he responded quietly.

"So figure it out," Mycroft said, his voice halting.

Sherlock stood and paced with hands clasped behind his back. Occasionally he stopped and closed his eyes, then resumed his walking back and forth on the worn rug. Mycroft sat and watched intently as his brother worked through the problem, as he searched his mind palace and deduced her identity. From time to time he muttered something quietly.

"Government…police force…young woman…"

Suddenly he stopped pacing. He turned slowly and eyed Mycroft with large eyes as his mouth formed a surprised oh.

"The girl is connected to someone close to both the government and the police force. But that doesn't have to be the same person. It's two separate people," he said quietly. "How old is she?" his voice lowered into a harsh whisper.

"How old would you guess, Sherlock?" his brother responded. "You'll probably be correct."

"Twenty."

Mycroft nodded. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out slowly before walking back to his leather chair and flinging himself down. Suddenly, his eyes darted open and he stared intently at Mycroft.

"Tell me," he said.

"Evelyn Jones grew up in Southfield to Peter and Margaret Jones. Her early years were no different from those of her peers, but when she was nineteen, her parents were killed in a car accident. She disappeared the next day. There has been no record of Evelyn Jones until a few days ago, when James Moriarty claimed he held her as a guest." Mycroft paused and looked at Sherlock. "However, I have intelligence that states Moriarty kidnapped her the day after her parents' death. Apparently, she escaped him and spent six months travelling Europe, evading his men, until she was recaptured a few days ago."

Sherlock sat in silence, staring at Mycroft without blinking. They sat in silence as Mycroft let the information sink into his younger brother's mind palace.

"So," Sherlock finally said, "I'll see her tomorrow?"

"We'll see her tomorrow," Mycroft responded.

He stood, grabbing an umbrella that leaned against the chair.

"I'll be here at 11:00 sharp, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood and walked to the window, staring out at the front street through the blinds. Already, the evening sunlight streamed through their edges, casting a long shadow behind his body. He turned and looked Mycroft in the eyes.

"John's coming too," he stated.

Mycroft sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

"Fine. John comes too," he replied. "If Jim Moriarty's past guests are any indication, I'm sure the girl will need a doctor."

Mycroft turned on his heel and walked down the stairs, leaving Sherlock staring into space, his eyes glazing over with contemplation and anger.


	5. Chapter 5

The past three days hadn't passed as quickly as Evelyn assumed they would. True, she had bragged about going for days without food while hiking El Camino – but those were different circumstances entirely. She was free, roaming the hills of northern Spain and darting in and out of vineyards while wandering through small towns and sleeping in safe churches. Here, everything was reversed. She was constantly in danger. She never knew when Jim Moriarty would burst through the door, wanting to play a game or gain information. At any minute, he could decide to end her life with a simple pull of a trigger while she lay helplessly chained to the bed.

Speaking of which, her wrists were killing her. While a nameless man would occasionally appear to shift the restrained arm, she still wore the handcuffs for the three-day period. Her wrists were raw and bleeding – but of course, Moriarty gave her no painkiller. Her face had stopped hurting the other day, but she knew it was an ugly sight from the large gash Jim had so graciously gifted her.

The door banged open. Jim sauntered through, dancing to some unheard music through white headphones. He swayed over to her bedside, twirling around one last time before pausing the music and removing the ear buds.

"Evelyn, dear, it's been ages," he drawled, sitting down next to her on the bed.

"It's been three days, Jim," she responded dryly. "I'm sure you've been just fine without my company."

He laughed, jumping up into a kneeling position on the bed and fishing a key from his pocket. Finding it, he moved closer to Evelyn and leaned over her body, reaching for her hand bound above head. He paused and smiled down at her as his body hovered over hers. She tensed, trying to push herself into the mattress.

"Well this is cozy," Jim drawled, lowering his face to meet hers.

Evelyn turned her face to the side. It was quickly wrenched back to meet Jim's eyes, eyes that were done playing and making small talk.

"You want free of those nasty handcuffs, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice soft and dangerous, his grip firm on her jaw.

She nodded, refusing to speak. Jim smirked.

"There's a price," he whispered. "There's always a price. All I want is one little kiss, Evelyn. That's it. One kiss and you'll have use of your hands again."

Evelyn turned her head slightly to the side, observing the emotions raging behind Jim's eyes. It only took her a second longer to make her decision. Wrenching her jaw out of Jim's hand, she spat in his face and thrust her head forward, head-butting him in the forehead and causing him to shout out in pain. Evelyn laughed softly as she watched him jerk backward and lose his balance slightly. She stopped laughing when he regained his poise and turned to face her with deadly glare.

It all happened so fast. One second, she was reeling from a painful slap to her face, a slap that whipped her head to the side and sent bursts of pain shooting through her jaw. The next, he was pinning down her body, forcibly kissing her, biting her lips and channeling his rage into her. Suddenly, he was gone, now sitting above her as though nothing had transpired, his face the picture of composure.

She felt hands on hers, freeing her wrists from their restraints. She brought them down to her face and gasped. They were red with blood and rubbed raw, with cuts lining her skin. She looked up at Jim. He shrugged.

"You ran last time, sweetheart," he said. "Couldn't risk it again."

He climbed off the bed and sauntered over to a cupboard, wrenching it open with a quick pull of the handle. Pulling out a grey pullover sweater and pair of dark jeans, he threw them onto the bed near Evelyn.

"Put them on, and clean yourself up. We've got company in twenty minutes." He paused and looked at his watch before continuing. "Someone will be by to bring you to the living room. Be ready."

With that, and without a second glance her way, Jim stalked out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Evelyn jumped from the bed and immediately fell to the ground. The dizziness that hit her from lack of food suddenly was sinking in. She breathed slowly. After a few minutes, she made her way into the attached bathroom that her captors had allowed her to use a few times daily. But there was something new about it this time. There was a mirror gracing the wall – something Jim must have ordered for today. She saw her reflection and struggled to maintain composure.

The deep gash in her face was angry red, with tiny splits that ran alongside the entire side of her face, trailing up to her forehead and down to her jawline. Her eyes were sunken, her cheekbones prominent, her lips chapped. Dark brown hair, usually lively with soft waves, now hung limply down her back, matted with dirt and blood. Bruises along her jaw in the shape of fingers reminded her of Jim's actions earlier. She sighed. She couldn't see the rest of her body in the tiny mirror, but she knew it probably wasn't much better than her face. She got to work scrubbing her face – avoiding the gash – and trying to make herself feel human again. With hair pulled back into a simple braid and new clothes gracing her weak body, she felt normal, almost.

Twenty minutes later, just as Jim had said, a knock sounded at her door.

"Come in," she called; surprised that anyone in this place would have the decency to knock before entering.

A tall man with dark hair pushed the door open. He wore dark pants and a purple vest, into which was tucked a dark patterned cravat. Impeccably dressed from hair to shoes, the man commanded the room into which he had entered. He took several steps toward Evelyn. She instinctively backed away. Something about him was off-putting, and he seemed different from the other men Jim employed. The man raised his eyebrows at her movement.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Evelyn," he said softly. "I'm here to take you to Jim and his guests."

She nodded slightly, taking a few steps toward him and following his outstretched arm, leading her out of the room and down the hallway. The door closed behind her. They walked in silence. Suddenly, a bunched section of carpeting tripped Evelyn's footsteps. Already weak from lack of food, she was unable to catch herself and started to fall. Strong hands caught her and held her until she regained her balance.

"Thank you…" she said, her voice trailing into a question.

"Sebastian," he responded, releasing her and pushing her forward slightly toward the living room.

"Thank you Sebastian," she finished weakly as they rounded the corner.

Four men sat stiffly in the living room, the room where just days ago, Jim had tortured her for information. She looked around, observing each of their reactions to the situation.

Jim sat in the largest chair, relaxing and sipping on a cup of tea. His eyes danced with excitement. Evelyn swallowed. Good things usually didn't follow that look. A tall, thin man, the oldest in the room, sat to Jim's right. He absent-mindedly twirled an umbrella in his hands as he stared at Jim. Next to him sat another man, taller, and with dark hair. His eyes darted around the room, his hands sat folded underneath his chin.

Evelyn gasped slightly at the last man. His hair was blond, his eyes were friendly – she knew him. John Watson: the man who brought her to St. John's the morning of her capture. Was he working for Moriarty? Her stomach clenched. Who were these men?

"Ah, our final guest has arrived!" Jim exclaimed, turning to greet Evelyn with a smile and lively eyes. "Come, sit next to me, sweetheart."

Evelyn walked stiffly to his side and sat in the chair. It was the same chair he had tortured her in. The fact did not escape her notice.

"Jesus," came a voice to her left. "You're that girl!"

She looked up to see John's face a mix of confusion and anger. It was shockingly comforting. Clearly, he wasn't working for Moriarty – but who was he then?

"You know her?" the older man shot across the room to John.

"Enough," Jim drawled beside her. "We'll have time for small talk later. Right now, I think some introductions need to be made."

He smiled at Evelyn, then reached out a hand and played lightly with the braid that trailed down her back. She wrenched her head to the side and stared at him with raging eyes. He laughed and turned back to the men seated before him.

"Everyone, meet Evelyn Jones," he said, putting extra emphasis on her last name, laughing slightly as he did so. "Jones," he murmured, "How amusing."

"Stop." The deep voice came from the dark-haired man who, until this point, hadn't spoken a word and hadn't moved from his original position. "Stop this, Moriarty. We don't have time for small talk. She clearly hasn't eaten for at least three days, she has an infected gash on her cheek, her wrists are raw from restraints, and you've clearly been more hands-on than is appropriate."

The man's face twisted slightly in anger before he calmed himself and continued speaking.

"She needs medical attention," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "And what's more," he continued, his voice becoming raw and grating, "Is that you haven't told her why we're here."

Jim laughed and clapped his hands excitedly.

"Oh, very good, Sherlock, very good!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'll let your doctor have a look at her. But first, a very important introduction!"

He turned to face Evelyn.

"Sweetheart, meet your father, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Her face drained of color as she looked at the tall man sitting across from her. His eyes were a mask, his only betrayal of emotion slightly shaking hands. . A thousand thoughts ran through her head within seconds. Her father. Her real father. She was adopted? She couldn't have been. Her parents…her real parents? What was happening? Why did it matter? Who was Sherlock Holmes? Beside her, she felt Jim lean in closely to her ear, his voice breaking through her flashing thoughts.

"He's on the side of the angels too, sweetheart."


	6. Chapter 6

An uneasy silence filled the room. Sherlock sat, visibly fuming, between a shockingly well composed Mycroft and a rather confused looking John. Across the room, Jim Moriarty sipped quietly at his tea, smirking overtop the rim at the hushed chaos he had introduced. Evelyn sat motionless next to her captor, staring blankly at Sherlock – no, at her father, she corrected herself. Her father, Sherlock Holmes. It was incomprehensible. Everything was spinning together; the recent revelation and her weakness from the torture and Jim's proximity and it all was whirling together in a vacuum of confusion. She breathed deeply and held her head in both hands, attempting to regain control.

"Something wrong, sweetheart?" Jim drawled beside her.

A hand reached out to stroke her hair. She batted it away, leaning to the opposite side in a feeble attempt to escape her captor's ministrations. It was a doomed endeavor. Her weakness, combined with the instability of the chair, caused her to tip to the side and fall to the floor. She cried in pain as the upturned chair grazed her gashed face. Her voice mingled with shouts of surprise and anger that erupted from around the room.

More hands brushing against her shoulders. She tried in vain to bat them away.

"Shh, it's all right, it's all right," a soft, clipped voice came from outside her tightly closed eyes. "I'm not him, I'm not him."

Evelyn ventured to open her eyes. Sherlock was crouching beside her, his gloved hands gently checking her body for any further damage, his eyes blazing with anger. She shrunk back instinctively. Trust no one, the voice in her head repeated. It's another one of Moriarty's tricks. Trust no one. Her head lulled back, her eyes fluttered. The pain and the weakness were too much, it was all too much.

Gentle arms cocooned her body. Suddenly, she was being lifted from the ground and held close to Sherlock's chest. She curled against him and shut her eyes, trying to block out everything, trying to disappear into the warm, comforting folds of his massive coat.

"She'll be coming with us," came Sherlock's voice, level and even through his obvious rage.

"And why would I let that happen?" came Moriarty's quiet question from across the room – dangerously soft and holding the threat of thinly veiled violence. "I rather like this one. Maybe I'd prefer to keep her."

"Stop it, just stop it," Sherlock replied, his voice grating and raw. He paused. His voice became toned with curiosity. "What is it you want?"

Evelyn opened her eyes at the question. She was still in Sherlock's arms; he was standing near the doorway as though prepared to bolt from the flat at Jim's slightest indication of allowance. She couldn't see Mycroft or John. In front of her, Jim sauntered over and stood precariously close to her and Sherlock. His eyes were dead, his mouth was a thin line. After several seconds of staring, his eyes crinkled into a smile and his mouth opened in laughter.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he said lightly, "The game's only just begun, my dear. I'll let you have her now – she's been no fun the past few days anyway. But I'll be in touch," he finished, his eyes narrowing and face hardening. He nodded to himself, as though making plans with a compatriot in his head. "Oh yes, I'll be in touch."

Evelyn sighed, relief pouring from her as she closed her eyes and shrank back into Sherlock's arms. She wasn't staying here. She was going home. Well, whatever home was now. At least it wasn't here, at least it wasn't with James Moriarty. At least she'd be somewhat free. Suddenly, a hand stroked along her jawline. Her eyes darted open to see Moriarty standing impeccably close to her, his eyes softened, his voice a mere breath upon her skin.

"I'll be seeing you soon, sweetheart," he said.

Sherlock's body wrenched around as Evelyn's stomach clenched at his words. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out Jim's words – but the damage was done. Her brief illusion of safety was shattered by his words. In Sherlock's arms, she felt him rushing from the flat and riding the lift down, down, down from her high prison in the sky. She heard the commotion of the busy London street as they stepped outside, felt the warm sunlight on her bleeding face, and settled into the backseat of the car that Sherlock gently placed her inside. As the engine roared to life, she was lulled to sleep by the motion of the car and by the voices arguing quietly in the backseat.

* * *

Her eyes shot open. Evelyn had no idea where she was. It was a common feeling these past few months – moving around nightly was not conducive to developing steady sleep habits. She glanced around, trying to remember. The room was dim, the shades drawn, yet dim light streamed in through their dusty surface that mirrored the state of the rest of the room – messy, in a state of disarray, nothing like that of James Moriarty's bedroom. She breathed a soft sight of relief for that. A knock at her door broke through her reverie.

"Come in," she tried to speak, but the words caught in her dry throat. She coughed slightly and tried again. "Come in," she spoke more clearly this time.

The door swung open slowly. John Watson walked through the door, his arms extended slightly in front of him in a gesture that signified gentleness and safety. His eyes were soft and concerned, his hair was messy, his sweater was slightly askew on his shoulders. He walked slowly over to her bedside and sat down at her feet. Evelyn shifted away from his body, remembering Jim's actions from several days ago. John frowned but said nothing about her movement.

"Hello, Evelyn," he said quietly. "How are you feeling?"

She paused to compose her thoughts. She had so many questions. She started with the most obvious.

"Where am I?"

John smiled, his eyes crinkling at her question.

"Guess I should've told you that already. You're at 221B Baker Street – it's the flat that Sherlock…I mean, your father, and I share," he stumbled slightly over Sherlock's name but composed himself. "What else do you want to know?"

"How long have I been here?"

"Only a day. You've been asleep the whole time. I was going to wake you up soon…you need to eat something."

Her stomach turned at the thought of food.

"I'm…I'm actually not very hungry…" her voice trailed off as John's eyes had suddenly become stern.

"It's not surprising, Evelyn. Your body's entered starvation mode, but you have to try to eat something. Understood?"

She nodded. He smiled.

"Good. Now, do you think you can stand? Maybe you can come out to the living room and lay down on the couch. Mrs. Hudson – our landlady, sweet woman – has offered to get you anything you need."

Evelyn flinched slightly at that word. Sweet. Almost like sweetheart, like Jim's name for her. She hated it. Still, she forced those thoughts aside. She was safe now, safe in this flat with John and with…with her father. She smiled.

"Help me up?" she asked John, who nodded and stood swiftly, offering her a hand out of bed.

Together they moved, slowly, so slowly, out of the messy bedroom and down the hallway to the living room. Evelyn was incredibly weak, and every step took massive determination. John was with her the entire way, gently helping her over upturned carpet and guiding her from the dining room into the living room, then helping her slowly lower herself to the worn couch pushed against a battered wall. She laid down and closed her eyes against the world, spent at the latest bit of energy she was forced to expend.

"Nope, sorry, no sleep yet. You've got to eat something," came a new voice.

Evelyn's eyes shot open. Across from her, sitting in a deep leather chair, sat Sherlock. He was staring intently at her, his eyes piercing overtop folded fingers in front of thin lips. She couldn't see their resemblance – except maybe the dark curl of their hair, and the high cheekbones, and maybe the eyes…

"Stop staring. It's impolite," he said sharply.

"You're the one who's staring," she responded weakly.

"I'm observing. It's different."

"Oh really?" she countered. "And what have you deduced?"

Sherlock smirked. He stood up from the chair and disappeared into the kitchen for several minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea and several biscuits. Placing it on the table in front of Evelyn, he backed away and seated himself in the chair again. She gaped at him, eying the tray of food suspiciously.

"Can…is that for me?" she asked softly, half expecting him to snatch away the food as she grabbed for it.

"Well of course it's for you. Why else would I – " Sherlock stopped talking, a light of realization coming into his eyes. He rose swiftly and walked to the window, clasping his arms behind him as he stared out into the street below.

"You asked me what I've deduced, Evelyn," he said quietly, in a voice of dangerous softness that reminded her of Moriarty's. He turned to face her. "I've deduced that if James Moriarty ever comes near my daughter again, I'll kill him."


End file.
